Coming Full Circle

I have to admit I may have shed a tear or two as I gave a final look at my office building in India.

I have met so many wonderful people, learned so many new things, and had so many experiences I'll never forget.  My coworkers have been so kind and made me feel so welcome.  These few months have been among the best in my career, needless to say the best of my life.

A few minutes later I shed a few tears of a different sort when my driver, spotting a jam up ahead, casually whipped the car around and gave me a second final look at my office building in India.  Then off we headed into oncoming traffic.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

-------

I most likely won't be blogging for the next two weeks while I'm trekking in Nepal.  Once I'm back in my home country, chances are I'll pick up again and try to share some of the stories I still have buzzing around my head which still haven't been told.  There are still so many photos, so many moments, and I don't quite feel like I'm done writing yet.  Besides, at the very least I need to share my photos of Mt. Everest.

So, watch this space, and until then . . . Namaste!

With My Little Eye

I'm really going to miss the daily commute to work with my colleague, the only other American at my company and in my guesthouse.

Our mornings have devolved into a game of "I Spy", in which points are awarded for absurdity and randomness.

I'll say, "I see a man with a sparkly pink sweater-vest."

She'll say, "I see a rickshaw with sixteen people in it."

I'll say, "I see a man whose choice of helmet is a tea towel."

She'll say, "I see a man transporting a pane of glass on the back of his motorbike."

I'll say, "I see a sign that says, 'Inconvenience Regrated'."

She'll say, "I see a man hanging out of a second-story window, welding, without goggles, and to keep his balance he's holding on to the part he's welding to the building.  And he's barefoot."

This morning, I had just casually remarked, "I see a cow eating burning trash," when my co-commuter suddenly took off her sunglasses, tossed them on the seat next to her, and burst out laughing.

"I see a chicken," she said.

We see lots of chickens.  I wasn't impressed.

"In the back of a rickshaw."

Sure enough, she did.

She always wins.

On My Final Week in India

It's with a heavy heart that I say farewell to the Rajasthani thali.

Did I say "heavy"?  I meant clogged.

Ghost Town

This past weekend being my last in India, I braved the heat to make one more excursion.  Forty kilometers away from the Taj Mahal, the sprawling complex of Fatepur Sikri receives its fair share of visitors, but has very few full-time residents due to the heat and the lack of water.

Asia Gate, the entrance to Fetepur (the mosque bit)

It took twelve years to construct by Akbar (father of Humuyan and grandfather to the builder of the Taj) and was abandoned just as quickly.  The complex is magnificent, though, and the architecture liberally borrows from Hindu, Muslim, Christian, and even Buddhist traditions.

The Mughals weren't known for their subtlety, although I get the feeling the stories are occasionally exaggerated by even the most official government tour guides.  Still, it's a rare sight to see a tower with over 500 elephant tusks decorating the outside to commemorate the king's favorite killer elephant.  (He made the elephant sit on people he was angry with.)  It's also rumored that the king used to play Parcheesi in the courtyard using slave girls as gamepieces.

My favorite part, though, was the fact that Akbar's city combined the influences of his three very different wives - one a Hindu, one a Muslim, and one a Christian.  The intricate carvings each seemed to contain one layer of each, stacked together into one beautiful design. It was a great example of Indian art borrowing from the country's long and diverse history.

Christian patterns on top, the Islamic flowers in the middle, and the Hindu swastik on the bottom

The only downside of the day was the fact that we were the only tourists brave enough to withstand 110 degree temperatures.  This made us very attractive to the hoards of tour guides ubiquitous anywhere along northern India's "Golden Triangle".  At one point, we resorted to saying, "No English.  No English.  No English" to every tout who approached.  The only problem was, they all knew so many secondary languages that we still couldn't get away.  When one of them started ushering me into the mosque in flawless Russian, I knew I might as well resign myself to the harassment.

By contract, once we were actually inside the city walls, things quieted down.  Quieted down a lot.  For the first time since coming to India, I couldn't hear so much as a single car horn.  No smattering of voices.  Barely even any birdsong.  It was dead silent.  At that point, the real isolation of this ghost town sunk in, and it became clear what a rare ruin it was.

Devil in the Details

Today one of my coworkers asked me, "So what do you think of India?  Is it very like the U.S.?"

I wasn't quite sure how to answer.  My immediate reaction was, "Yes."  In a lot of ways, life goes on just the same.  I get up, I put on the same clothes, I go to work, I push some paper, I drive home, I have dinner, I relax and go to bed.  I entertain myself by going to the movies or reading a book or hanging out with friends.  Life falls into a routine no matter where you are.

At the same time, there is just something about these past four months which has been wildly different than anything else I've ever experienced.  It's just the little things, the things that you do every day back home without thinking about, that are of a slightly slightly new color.  That one little difference can make you feel like you're in a different world.

Take Cheetos, for instance.  Sure, you can get Cheetos in India.  The package looks the same, the Cheetos look the same, and they even leave the same orange powder on your fingers.  However.  The Cheetos here are spicy.  Your correspondent is eating masala Cheetos.  No one pops a Cheeto into her mouth expecting to start gasping for water.  But Indian Cheetos are among the spiciest foods I've eaten while abroad (and I've eaten chili pickle).

Then, here you are walking down the street, and suddenly you stumble over a 16th-century mosque.  Not only is there a gorgeous ruin, in fact, but people are actually building a little shanty-town inside the alcoves.  In Haus Kaus Village, part of a ruin fell over a few months ago and the locals seemed to just shrug and drag out the bricks for other buildings.  Meanwhile, Americans stumble past these things and their eyes just boggle.  Our first settlements came 100 years after these buildings were even abandoned.

So, it's the intangibles.  It's inexplicable.  How do you talk about the things you take for granted? I tried to stammer out an answer to my coworker, but I must not have been making much sense.  She laughed and shrugged and said, "It must be much tidier in the U.S. than in India.  It's very messy here."

"Well, that's part of it," I said.  "Some part of the U.S. are just as messy.  Some parts are not."  I couldn't think of any other way to put it in words. I just smiled and gave her a head-wobble instead.

Gulmohar Park, near Haus Kaus

The Road to Agra

Today was yet another trip down the long road to Agra.

I've been in that direction three times in three months.  First, in February, on a day trip to Bharatpur and Keoladeo Bird Sanctuary, next in March to see the main attraction, the Taj Mahal, and finally today to see the ghost city of Fatepur Sikri, built by Akbar 450 years ago and quickly abandoned because it had no source of water.  (Whoops.)

A few months ago, one of my coworkers commented that the road from Delhi to Agra is one of the best in India.  I had to choke down a laugh.  My first trip, I made the mistake of sitting in the front seat, and the entire time I needed to keep my eyes closed as we darted in and out of traffic, nearly ran over several jaywalkers, dodged herds of cows, all in the pitch dark.  However, by the end of today, I kind of understood.  Sure, it's busy, and it's full of trucks competing with bicycles competing with rickshaws competing with buses.  But, once you turn off that road you can barely find drivable pavement.  It's all relative, I guess.

I'll vividly remember the road to Agra because it gives you such a vivid picture of India.  You pass by gigantic mall complexes and little straw huts.  You stop to pay the tourist tax and you're surrounded by touts with cheap necklaces.  You drive through stretches where there's not a building in sight.  And of course, there is always so much noise and chaos, but your driver never seems to look nervous as he tootles away on the horn.

Everyone has heard stories about the Taj Mahal.  It's the getting there, though, that really makes you realize what's so special about India.

How to Eat a Mango Without Making a Mess and Looking Like A Complete Idiot

Haven't the foggiest idea.

The Lightbulb Moment

Leave it to The Economist to give words to the cultural shift I've been feeling these past four months.  Their front-page special report this week is on the emerging economies, particularly India and China, and it's a fascinating read. This link is subscription only, sadly, but it's worth picking up a copy from newsstands if you get a chance.

The argument is that a management shift is occuring in the emerging economies analagous to the "lean manufacturing" shift which happened in the 1980s thanks to Japan.  The new concept being propogated by Indian-based multinationals turns the American system on its head.  Where our companies are making products which are nicer, fancier, with more gizmos and gadgets -- think the iPad -- Indian companies are focusing on "frugal innovation", defined as "taking the needs of poor consumers as a starting point and working backwards. . . . [stripping] the products down to their bare essentials".

I've seen this concept at work, but it's not until now that I've been able to put a finger on it.  This explains why the Tata Nano is such a big deal.  It's a car produced by one of India's biggest car companies, for the low price of 1 lakh rupees--roughly $2,200.  Then there's the cost of health care, which I've marveled about.  Indian medical centers are famous for frugal innovation.  The Economist describes one example:

Aravind, the world's biggest eye-hospital chain, performs some 200,000 eye operations a year.  It takes the assembly-line principle literally: four operating tables are laid side by side and two doctors operate on adjacent tables.  When the first operation is done, the second patient is already in place.

So, the consumer pays for their doctor's expertise only where it's most needed, saving themselves money and time.  Back home, I think American consumers would balk immediately.  We want the personal touch.  We want the doctor to sit with us and hold our hands, even though really his most crucial moments are those ten minutes he's actually working on our eye.  Assembly-line surgery completely offends our sensibilities. No wonder I was so traumatized by my trip to the hospital.

Maybe that's why I've occasionally struggled to figure out what's so difficult about customizing books in India and customizing books in the US.  I think this has something to do with it.  We see custom publishing back home as making a book better.  We're adding a syllabus, we're giving you a prettier cover, we're giving you exactly what you want for your course.  American consumers love this treatment.  I had assumed that Indian consumers do, too, so every step I took was towards that goal.

Turns out I should consider a different tactic.  Maybe customization in India goes in the opposite direction.  We're stripping books down so that students pay as little as possible, and they don't have to wade through the bells and whistles.  They have exactly what's on their syllabus and nothing more.  When looked at this way, it makes sense to be as aggressive as possible to rip out the fluffy bits and map directly to each topic. Instead of a finished product to improve on, our traditional textbooks become raw material to mine.

I kind of wish I'd known this before coming into the job, but like I said, it's difficult to put your finger on the difference until you're really immersed in it.  From the outside, US and Indian custom books look the same.  Let me tell you, though, there is a different world inside of each.  There is so much more behind what's on the page.

Errata Sheet

Every so often, I’ll post something starry-eyed and hopeful on this blog, only to discover that—surprise, surprise!—I am actually completely wrong.  The little "discoveries" usually come from reading the morning paper. Like, for instance:

- Indian Idol kept me from work. Hilarious! Until someone gets trampled..

- Oh, look at all of the development going on in that park in Noida! ... Or maybe not so much!.

- Here I am talking about the brand new IPL, and wouldn’t you know: scandal, scandal, scandal!

- A funny story about rickshaw drivers.  Which, according to the newspaper, is more like "a sordid story of a battle for survival"..

Journalism in India is a little funny, because the conventions are completely different from American papers.  Little things, which don't really lessen journalistic integrity, still come across as a bit new to a Yankee reader.  For instance, when someone is accused of a crime, the paper says they allegedly did such-and-such; allegedly being written in (to my eye) very accusatory italics. Sunday papers contain marriage classifieds, broken down by caste or clan, which my Indian coworkers assure me are absolutely hilarious.  There is a whole section of the citywide Sunday paper also devoted to spirituality. Then, I swear this morning over breakfast I browsed right over a picture of dead babies.

I would quit reading the newspaper entirely, but I never get tired of seeing this lady in the headlines.  OK, maybe I have a juvenile sense of humor, but when the news is dour you get your kicks where you can.

One Sweet World

On occasional Sunday mornings a few of my hotel-mates and I will struggle out of bed at 5 am to help a local Sikh couple serve langar at their gurudwara.  Langar is a wonderful concept: anyone, be it Sikh, Christian, Hindu, or Muslim, can come take a simple meal served by unpaid Sikh volunteers.  The only stipulation is that everyone is seated on the ground and everyone eats together.  The concept is called vand chakko, or sharing what you have and consuming it together.

The Sikhs I know have been coming to the gurudwara every day for many years, donating huge pots of dal and thousands of chapattis.  I know them through a funny coincidence.  One of the women in my hotel was previously housed at a guesthouse in Defence Colony, just up the road from where we stay now.  Every morning, she used to pet one of the stray neighborhood dogs.  One morning, her neighbor came outside to remark,  "I see you every day, always petting this dog!"  They struck up a friendship, and now months later she has convinced us to troupe en masse before sunrise into a crowd of singing, praying Sikhs.

Last Sunday was odd because it immediately followed on the heels of a trip to the Tibetan colony on the far north side of Delhi.  Before coming to India, I had just about as much exposure to Buddhism as I had to Sikhism.  Wandering into this colony was like entering another world.  Tucked away from the heat and crowds, we found a peaceful little market selling all types of trinkets, jewelry, shawls, carpets, bags, you name it, but without the pressure and the haggling of most Delhi bazaars.  The odd Buddhist monk shuffled past the stalls and a small temple ringed with prayer wheels stood at the far end, from which came the sound of bells and chanting.  Above the rooftops, prayer flags were strung in every direction, punctuated by "Free Tibet" banners.

Most poignantly, signs advertised budget travel to and from Dharamsala, the current home-in-exile of the Dalai Lama, and offered low-price phone calls home to Tibet.  You got the feeling that those staying in this enclave would really much rather be back in the mountains, not in the heat of the plains.  I spun a few prayer wheels for them, it being the least I could do. It's such a big world, so far beyond my past experience.

Still, I was reminded after the gurudwara that it's a small world, too.  We were invited back to the home of one Sikh gentleman for tea, and after our early wake-up call we were happy for the caffeine.  This gentleman is an avid gardener, and plants burst out onto his driveway, onto his terrace, and spill out down from the roof.  He's won several all-India competitions for his bonsai trees.  This week, one of my companions was coming along for the first time.  But, when we stepped out of the car, her eyes went wide.

"This is your garden?" she exclaimed.

When the gentleman affirmed, she burst out laughing.  "I came to India a few years ago and stayed at the guesthouse down the road.  Every day, I would walk past this house and say how pretty the garden was.  I even have pictures of it in my photo album.  Now here I am, having tea with the gardener!"

I am always amazed at the way the smallest things stay with you, even when the world itself is so very big.

Movie Night

Watching my first Bollywood movie, Om Shanti Om.  Three hours of musical interludes, star-crossed lovers, fighting evildoers, chewing scenery, and a dance number in which the main actor laments the "pain of disco" as a bucket of water is thrown over his airbrushed abs.  (There is, however, no kissing on the lips.)  It is absolutely over-the-top, and you know what?  It works.

Dog Days

Show me a picture of a shady tree, and I will show you a picture with at least seven dogs in it.  The animals here seem to have a sixth sense for cool spots, and they don't care if it's in the middle of the street or directly under the back wheels of a tractor.

Once, my coworkers and I traveled to a neighboring campus for a quick meeting.  We parked our car and headed inside for a brief fifteen minutes.  When we came back outside, a pair of puppy legs were protruding from beneath the front axle.

"There's a dog under your car," I warned as I reached for the passenger door.

My coworker signed heavily.  "Actually, there are several."

Sure enough, three dogs immediately dragged themselves back into the sunlight and trotted down the street.

Even the monuments aren't immune.  Puppies drape themselves over ruins, blissfully unaware of the crowds milling past them on either side.  I once came across an entire pack of dogs at Humayan's Tomb, which the guard pointed to and said, "Grandfather, father, children."  Looking closer, I could see the family resemblance.

Tombs were built by royalty, of course, and Indian royalty in particular knows how to keep cool.  Here's one dog who was smart enough to take advantage of that fact.

Makes me wish I had a pool of my own to play in.

Wrong Number...?

There was a hilarious moment today during one of our Summary Meetings with the head of sales.  We are now in discussion with one of our subject matter experts regarding some new content we plan to ask him to author.  It's uncharted territory for this team, so it was decided we should set up a conference call.

"Have you been in touch by phone?"  asked my colleague.

"Uhhhhhh...."

The image of me three weeks ago making my first phone call to this professor flashed into my head.  I valiantly had kept repeating, "Hello?  I am your editor?"  "Hello?"  "Custom book?" while the receiving party just kept asking, "WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?"

Apparently, there was some issue with the accent.

"He's ... um ... difficult to communicate with by phone," I finally said.

My four Indian coworkers looked at me for a moment before they simultaneously realized what I had been trying to speak around.  Then they burst out laughing.

"It's ok," the sales boss reassured me.  "People from that state are hard to understand even by us.  You know Hinglish? What they speak is worse."

"I'll bet he was pretty surprised to hear an American on the phone, though," my colleague added.  "We had one group of subject matter experts terrified last month because they thought we had flown you in especially for their project, and they hadn't even signed their contract!"

It's true; I'm not sure how many of my authors and customizers are confused about the accent at the other end of the line.  Gamely, no one has mentioned it so far.  When I start transitioning myself out in a few weeks, though, I can name at least two or three professors who will probably respond, "OH!  Yes!  I was WONDERING!"

Cricket Madness

It's that magical time of year again.  Back home, my beloved Detroit Red Wings are back in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, which during a normal April means I would be camped out at my local corner tavern with a beer and a rabid look on my face.  In my present circumstance, however, I've had to console myself by developing a casual interest in Indian cricket.

What my American readers may not know is that there is more than one form of cricket.  Up until three years ago, you had two options: games could take forever, or they could take an eternity.  (In other words, matches would take either one or five days.  Yes, entire days.)  Leagues and matches are most important when they're across nations, for instance when India takes on Australia or Pakistan.  A lot of patriotism is tied up in cricket, and things probably do get ugly--although it's a gentleman's game, played all in white.

Then, a new version of cricket was born named Twenty20, which could take as little (!) as five hours, and which promotes more action, more active swinging by batsmen.  I guess it's cricket's version of the home run derby.  The BCCI, India's governing cricket body, inked all sorts of lucrative deals to start a new Twenty20 League called the India Premier League, or IPL, which is the first city-based league in all of India.  I had thought cricket was a big deal during the World matches, but four weeks ago I began being doubly bombarded by Delhi Daredevils this and Rajasthani Royals that.  You can't walk into a single store without seeing some sort of IPL-related promotion.  Even Cafe Coffee Day, the Indian Starbucks, is offering a special coffee smoothie for Daredevils fans.

Once, I asked if it were possible to get tickets to an IPL game.  "Oh, no," I was assured.  "You cannot get tickets.  And even people who cannot get tickets will still fight to climb the trees outside the stadium to watch the games."  My guess is, that's a fight I would lose.  I'll settle for watching on TV.

Not that it's very difficult to watch cricket on TV.  The outdoor pavilion at Ansal Plaza, a mall down the street from my hotel, broadcasts IPL games on a bigscreen for free to anybody who happens to be in the neighborhood.  How refreshing, in an era of pay-per-view and home-team blackouts!  It makes for a pleasant evening to spend cheering on the team with your fellow Delhi-ites (even if the evening stretches from lunchtime well past dinner...)

It's funny, too, that IPL represents a huge departure for Indian sport.  It's the first league to be really commoditized.  Previously, there hadn't been any market for sports jerseys or memorabilia.  Everything was white!  IPL changed all that, and colors and logos look just the same as any baseball or football team back home. In just its third year, the jersey craze has caught on like wildfire.  There are just as many Daredevils shirts in Delhi as there are Colts jerseys in Indy.

Frankly, I'm surprised nobody thought of this sooner!  How quickly can field hockey and football do the same?

Understandably, the new word on the street is "expansion".  New teams may be added, and maybe even new leagues.  Will they field a similar Twenty20 league in the US?  Will there be exhibition games soon in LA?  I'll be watching for it.  Now, if only they would start bringing ice hockey matches to the subcontinent... Then I would REALLY be happy.

Ode to My Little Corner-Store Man

Shopping in this neighborhood routinely involves no fewer than five stores just to meet daily needs.  There is the fruit stand, right across from the vegetable stand, then the sweet stand down the street, and the dairy stand, and finally the corner store for everything else.  After getting dropped off at the end of my workday, I have a pretty set routine for gathering supplies, and the shopkeepers are getting to know me by now.  (How many other blondes come by asking for paneer?)  So, let me tell you about my little corner-store man.

When I first walked into his shop, all I wanted was some bread and some frickin' water.  I use the term "walked into" very loosely, of course, because his shop barely fits himself, a counter full of candy, a cooler for drinks and yogurt, and the five or six various members of his family who always seem to be hanging out with him.  My corner-store man doesn't speak much English, and at the time I knew NO Hindi, so we communicated by gestures and shrugs.  Eventually I plopped my bread, a bottle, and a few more impulse picks onto the counter, looking around to make sure there was nothing I'd missed.

He saw me browsing and immediately launched in.  "Soap?" he suggested.

"Yeah, actually..."  I glanced at where he was pointing.  "Dish soap?"

He got some down.  "Shampoo?" he asked, pointing to something else.

"Well, I don't know if I need that..."

"Candy?"  Pointing to the Cadbury.

"Hmm.... Mayyyybeeeee...."

"Shoes?"  He pulled out a business card, placed it in my hand, then pointed to a picture of himself and another gentleman taped to the counter. The card was for a shoe shop in Paharganj. "My brother."

"Sure, maybe I'll stop by," I promised, thinking, What?


Now, it's a regular routine.  Whenever I come in, he tells a helper to get me bread, dahi, and then suggests at least four or five other things I could buy at that given moment.  Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.  (Usually I don't--there's only so many times you need to buy dish soap when you don't have a kitchen.)  He gives me Cadbury Eclairs as change instead of Rupee coins.  When I come in without wanting a certain item, like if I already have enough dahi for the week, he always looks sort of confused--even if I had bought the same item from him yesterday.  I love shopping at this guy's store.  It's one of the little things I do to make myself feel at home.

The reason why my little corner-store man gets a special write-up today is because he's sold me something that eclipses everything I've bought from him before. Behold:  corner store-bought laddoo.

Not just ANY laddoo, though.  What's so special about this box?  Take a closer look at the label.

It's laddoo I can eat!

No more worrying about the suspicious 100-degree temperature inside my local sweet store!  No more ignoring the fact that I just watched them preparing laddoo on the street using bare hands!

It's sad that one or two (or twelve) tummy bugs have reduced me to this, but it proves a point: does my corner-store man know me or what?

Two Amazing Discoveries

First, it is possible to buy Peanut M&Ms in India!

Second, they really do melt in your mouth, not in your hand.  Even in 106-degree heat!

The world truly is a wonderful place.

Mending

If someone were to ask me to name the most difficult part about living in India, I would have an easy answer: the illness.

Oddly enough, back home I am generally in perfect condition.  My immune system keeps me on my feet three hundred sixty-five days out of the year.  I once completed a triathlon the day before I discovered I had the swine flu.  Even in India, over the winter, I managed to get used to the dirty air and the new bugs in the environment with a minimum of trouble.

Then the thermometer went up to ninety, ninety-five, one hundred, and the bacteria doubled with every degree.  Now all bets are off.

It's an eye-opening experience to step into a hospital in a developing country.  When I was there, I learned two things: it's possible to be in and out in forty minutes, and it will cost you maybe twenty dollars total (including prescriptions).  To give you some context, a trip to the ER in Boston takes a minimum of four hours (although I once spent twelve just sitting in the waiting room) and you'll need to subsequently pay an arm, a leg, and your first-born child.

Afterwards, though, it's difficult to feel sorry for yourself.  Obviously, many people were there who felt much sicker than me.  Many people were there who, despite the low prices, found medical care payments a burden.  Most of all, I noticed who were not there.  With over 14 million people in Delhi, I wondered how there were so few other patients.  Surely it's not because everyone is so healthy.  One listen to the crowd noises outside my window at night tells you that's not true.  Something tells me that even with these low barriers, providing medical care to so many must be near impossible.  That probably explains the large numbers of "eye camps" or "heart camps" in the Delhi area--essentially, places for the needy to receive a free checkup.  It's like a lot of benefits promised to the poor: a good start, but is it ever going to be enough?

I have one sister who wants to be a nurse and one sister who wants to help sick children cope during hospital visits.  I think it's one of the most important aspects of my job that I create materials to help future doctors and nurses learn.  Witnessing the sick people inside the hospital--and the sick people outside the hospital--I am thankful for people who do truly good work for the benefit of others.  It's hard to ignore, however, how much more work still has to be done.

As for me, I'm concentrating on healing as quickly as possible, and God willing will be back on my feet soon enough.  It just might mean no more eating food that isn't boiling hot.  Sadly, this may mean--gasp!--no more laddoo from Aggarwal Sweets.  That's a tragedy.  Still, if that's the worst I've got, I'm luckier than I think.

Recap from Shimla and Environs, in Pictures

Skrrh skhrrch.  Skrchh skrchh skrchh.

"Mrrffhhmm, what's that?" I murmured, only half awake.

Rustle rustle rustle rustle.  Scrtcch srtccch.

I rolled over and shone my flashlight out the window, just in time to see a pair of paws disappear over the top of the roof.  Was it a monkey or was it some kind of cat?  More importantly, could it claw its way through the thatched roof?

It was the middle of the night in the Himalayan wilderness, and I was staying in a campsite on Summer Hill, just outside of Shimla.  While not in the high peaks region of the mountain range, Shimla is deep enough into the hills to afford a blessed respite from the sweltering heat of the plains.  The British were smart enough to make it their capitol during summer months, when New Delhi became unbearable for delicate Europeans.  Now, many long years after Indian independence, we Yankees made a similar decision and headed North to recharge after a long work week.

"I heard about this great place from my boss," I had announced while booking the trip. "And guess what!  We can even stay in a treehouse!"

What I didn't account for, of course, was that this wasn't just any tree house.  It was a tree house in India.  Which means, among other things, we would have visitors of the animal kind...

... and the insect kind ...

... and midnight visitors like our monkey.

The construction was also a source of some joking between my friends and I.  Sure, it was sturdy enough, but it was made entirely by hand, of wood.  There were limits to its possible structural integrity.  It made me a bit--shall we say, nervous? to climb the stairs and feel the entire building wobble.  Shifting from one side to the other made the whole room sway.  And forget making any sudden movements!

It seemed more funny than dangerous, though, and the general consensus was that the building would hold at least until the end of the weekend.  Besides, they used brand-name building materials...

... Just don't mention that John Deere is spelled with an "e", and they make tractors.  Not wood.

All joking aside, though, the scenery was worth every moment.  We were able to avoid the noise of Shimla--because, yes, in India even remote hilltop cities are crowded--and do some trekking through the wilderness.  We breathed clean air and ate delicious, fresh food.  We saw more monkeys than we could shake a stick at (literally).  We spent an entire afternoon drinking lassi and watching eagles fly over the mountainside.

India is many things, it can be beautiful and frustrating at the same time, but one thing it's not is easily describable.  It's a mass of contradictions.  You could say, it's a little like a log tree house on a remote mountainside... with candle and ashtray complementary.

Thai One On

Have been away from the blog for a few days thanks to the [Publishing Company] India National Sales Meeting in Pattaya, Thailand.  A full update will come soon, but for now let me say this:  There is no better way to bridge the gap than to get culture-shocked by the side of those who have been culture-shocking you.

And now, apropos of nothing, here is a picture of the scariest Ronald McDonald I've ever seen:

Photographic Evidence

Fact:  The awesomeness of any picture involving monkeys is directly proportional to the awesomeness of the expression on the monkey's face.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

My personal favorite.  From far away it looks like we're hanging out in a park with a friendly little monkey. As you'll notice from our posture, we had been sitting calmly until this exact moment. When you zoom in, though, you see we took the picture just as he did THIS...

I Am Here!

A few weeks ago, my taxi service changed drivers on me. JP suddenly failed to arrive one morning in his white Ford Ikon. He was replaced by an unfamiliar gentleman with a thick mustache and dapper white uniform, whose name is spelled "Ram" but which was pronounced with maybe three or four additional syllables when he introduced himself.*

Changing drivers is a slightly stressful occurance, because addresses in India are not necessarily straightforward. Packages are commonly marked with instructions like, "Across from the flyover", or "Next to the bank", because, really, that's the best way to find things. Essentially, those street numbers on my business card are meaningless. Ram spent that first morning performing a version of what I call the cabdriver Google: stopping every other mile to ask for directions.

Over time, though, he got into the swing of things, and Ram now routinely delivers me at work 15 minutes faster than did JP. He tries to chat a bit more, too, even though I have limited Hindi and he has limited English. Overall, he's a very nice guy.

One Saturday, when I didn't need to go to work and Ram had the day off, a few friends and I decided to take a trip to the Delhi zoo. Imagine my surprise, then, when, after waiting in line with chattering families and being warned about stray monkeys, the first person I bumped into after walking through the gate--in a city of 14 million people--was my driver.

His face lit up, and he exclaimed, "Madame!" just at the same time I said, "Ram!" It was such a funny coincidence, and we were both grinning ear-to-ear, but... the language barrier! I struggled to think of something nice in Hindi while he clearly struggled right back for the English. After a moment, I blurted out, "Acha! Acha!", or "Good! Good!" and then, "Sightseeing!"

He head-wobbled vigorously, and, with a big smile on his face, announced, "Yes, Madame! I am here!"

That's just about all the verbal communication we could manage, so we grinned at each other a few more seconds and waved enthusiastic goodbyes. What a world! How fluky to see Ram, in all places, at the Delhi zoo. Sightseeing! Madame! I am here! It's the little moments like this that make a girl feel slightly more at home.

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(Side note: I had an awkward moment a few days ago when JP showed up again in front of my office, chauffeuring--gasp!--another American. What do you do in this situation? Do you introduce your current and former driver? Do they already know each other? What do they say about me after I go inside?)